The Sporting Life
by ohyellowbird
Summary: Tate keeps finding notes in his locker and is about to discover who hass been writing them. / High school AU / Gift Fic for VioletTendencies.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hello everyone! This is my long overdue Gift Fic for **VioletTendecies**. She wanted a fluffy high school AU where Violet and Tate are both alive, so here it is! I hope you enjoy it, lovely!

I know, i know. My titles make no sense. I just really like The Decemberists, okay?

Happy reading!

xx

* * *

><p>Would you fuck a girl on her period?<p>

-V

_Sure, why not? Blood doesn't scare me._

* * *

><p>Holding the scrap of paper against his closed locker, Tate scribbles down his reply just as the late bell rings, folding and tucking it under the metal door after, careful to leave one corner just visible. Smiling down at the white peek-a-boo, he slings his backpack over one shoulder and hurries off to class.<p>

Tate was new to Westfield High, a transfer student. Over Christmas break, his mother just up and decided they were moving across the country. She'd met someone online, a no-big-deal theatre actor named Larry whose divorce had recently been finalized, and just couldn't bear the distance any longer. (Or the fact that she was shacked up in a double-wide with two mongoloids and Tate when she could be sitting pretty in a 1920's L.A. Victorian.)

She made him leave Georgia and his friends for Los Angeles and loneliness. And he hated her for it. One semester left of high school and he'd be spending it alone.

As the new kid in school, at first he was picked on, bullied. Assholes on the Varsity Football team trashed his locker and flipped his lunch. They gave him black eyes in the bathrooms and split lips in the halls. But then he joined the track team. And put their Quarterback into the hospital for three weeks; Kyle Greenwell has been eating through a straw ever since.

That little stunt must be what caught _her _attention; V.

A few days later, Tate had opened his locker to find a neatly folded slip of binder paper perched atop his AP Biology book. Dropping his backpack down onto the tile, puzzled, he'd quickly pulled it open to reveal the first of many questions, arched into elegant cursive.

* * *

><p>Who's your favorite Romantic?<p>

-V

* * *

><p>Tate had gawked at the tiny handwriting for a long minute, trying to place it. It didn't look familiar, like anyone's from his English Comp. class. So where did it come from? And who knew he liked poetry? Standing alone amidst the mindless chatter of teenage waste, he flushes pink behind the privacy of his locker door, anxious and intrigued at the same time, and traces the swooped V with his thumb. Who knew of his affinity for Lord Byron and Keats?<p>

After another second's hesitation, he digs into his pocket for a pencil and jots down his answer, standing dumbly with the re-folded note when he's through. He doesn't know this mystery person's locker number or where they sit at lunch. Where's he going to stuff the note for them to find?

The warning bell for third period rings. Tate huffs out an aggravated sigh, feeling ridiculous, and slams his locker shut, stuffing the little oddity under the door and out of his mind.

When he comes back from lunch however, to put away his Economics book and fish out his _Grapes of Wrath_, there's another note. Just sitting there. Waiting to be unfolded.

That's the start of everything.

He and V begin trading questions and answers daily.

They start off innocent enough. What's your favorite movie? _True Romance. _Do you smoke? _No. I run track. _What kind of music are you into? _Nirvana. The Sex Pistols. The Smiths. Shit like that. _

But soon, they grow intrusive, vulgar, probing. Do you still have your V-Card? _No. Why? Do you? _Have you ever cut before? _Maybe. Yeah. _What kind of porn are you into? Do you like it when chicks are shaved? What's your opinion on the whole dom and sub thing? Think you'd ever kill a guy?

V never sent any answers, only more questions. Even when Tate pressed her about things, like being a virgin and whether she cared that he wasn't, he was only gifted more inquiries.

He tried to catch her in the halls, feeding his locker the little white pieces of paper. He'd peek out of classrooms and race her when the bells rang, but he never caught so much as a glimpse of her. It was like she was a ghost or something. Regardless of whether he cut out of class early or skipped it altogether, when he feverishly spun open the dial on his lock, it would already be waiting for him, mocking him for being foolish enough to think he could best her, that little lined square.

Tate wanted to see her. At least, he'd figured it was a her, by the pretty handwriting and the sometimes intricate folding of the notes.

She was the only light in this filthy place. He didn't have friends, refused them actually. The kids here were vile and materialistic, begging their parents for boob jobs and Bentleys before they were even old enough to vote. He'd been invited out a few times, by his teammates and by some of the girls in his classes. But the guys were assholes and the girls were cookie-cutter trash, orange skin and white hair with pink lips and tight skirts. Instead, he spent his afternoons alone, raiding his mom's pill stash and counting down the days until graduation and thinking of _her_.

What did she look like? Did she have brown hair or blonde, or maybe she dyed it. Was she cute? Did she have acne? Was she a waif or a whale? What color were her eyes? How big were her tits?

Flopped belly down on his mattress, snorting a thick line of Constance's Valium, Tate would wonder, piecing together his perfect vision. And when his mind was full up of thin wrists and round eyes, it would be empty, for once, of handguns and kerosene. For the distraction of V, he was thankful.

They'd been playing this back and forth for the better part of a month when Tate flung open his locker and opened a note that made his heart skitter-start against the cage of his ribs.

He pulls in a slow breath and pushes blonde bangs out of his eyes to read the note again, just to be sure that he wasn't mistaken, just to be sure he hadn't come down with dyslexia.

* * *

><p>Meet me. Tonight. At the library. 7PM.<p>

-V

* * *

><p>Tate has to physically stop himself from whooping right there in the middle of the hall. He grips the edges of his locker and breathes in a slow one, two, three, four, willing himself calm. But he can't help the secret smile that stretches across his lips at the long-anticipated invitation, just leans into his open locker and tries to hide it, wondering if she's watching, suddenly shy.<p>

But then he remembers something, and as quick as it's there, his smile drains away, disappointment settling like lead in the bottom of his stomach.

Tonight is Westfield's big track meet. Scouts from a shitload of colleges are coming out, and if he ever wants to get out of this hellhole, Tate really can't ditch it.

He internally rages at the realization for a minute, wadding the note up into his fist and pounding it against the back of his locker, hissing out cursed '_God Fucking Damnit_'s and denting the metal. He's been waiting for this for weeks, has asked her after every recent response if they could maybe hang out sometime, and now he's got to blow her off for some fucking school sport. What bullshit.

But wait. If the track meet's at 6:00 and he's only running four events, if he can get out of the 4x400 relay, he can maybe scramble over to the library by 7:45, 8:00 at the latest. But, shit, he'll be sweaty as fuck and probably reek.

Not the most ideal first impression, but Tate's too anxious to wait any longer.

Before he can think better of it, he rushes a scrawled '_Ok, but I might be late. I've got track.' _and jams the reply under the door, barely making it to Calculus before the last bell rings out.

* * *

><p>The track meet goes well. Tate places first in both the 100-meter dash and the 800-meter run – he didn't have to worry about getting his heart rate up for each event; it was already racing. But then, distracted by a strange girl sitting in the stands, her face shaded by a black porkpie hat, he stumbles through the 400-meter hurdle, scarcely managing third place.<p>

By the time his team is setting up for the 4x400 relay, it is already crowding 7:50 and pitch dark outside. The stadium lights have come on and Tate eyes his coach down at the end of the football field talking animatedly to a small crowd of students dressed down in black tank tops and emerald shorts. His mother and her boyfriend, Larry, are perched up high in the stands. She's staring into her lap at her iPhone and he's smiling like a fool and watching, oblivious. Good, now's his chance.

Snagging a fresh towel and ducking below the stacked rows of seats, Tate abandons the meet and heads for the library, trying to ignore the rolling tingles spreading through his middle and up into his throat.

Once the roar of the stadium fades into a faraway murmur, Tate realizes what's happening and has to stop to catch his breath, folding over, hands pressing around the tops of his knees. He's going to meet the faceless girl he's been dreaming of for weeks. He'll finally know whether her hair's brown or blonde and if she's cute and whether or not this is all just some elaborate prank put into motion by Kyle Greenwell's bruised ego and his broken jaw.

Suddenly, he's all-over nervous. Standing alone in the parking lot, his hands are trembling and his sweat turns cold. The wind washes over the nape of his neck and he shivers, forcing out a breath and swabbing at his face with the hand towel. He's sweaty and his skin is flushed pink and when he opens the door to the library, she's just going to laugh and push past him. His tank's damp with sweat and so is his brow and she'll think it's gross. Wearing Nikes and jersey, without the bravado of his flannel and Chucks, all of the confidence from turning girls down the past month disappears.

As Tate winds through empty halls, the sound of his footsteps loud in the pressing silence, he feels about an inch tall.

When he passes by his locker, the white tease of paper is gone.

She got his reply. She's in there. She's waiting.

What feels like hours later, he reaches the end of the last hall and stops before the door that's marked 'Library' in black faded paint.

The metal doorknob is cold when his hand molds around it, his grip slippery with sweat. And blowing out a slow shaking exhale, Tate turns his wrist and eases the heavy door open.

It's dark inside, the lights manually switched off by the janitor hours ago. The only source of light in the room pours in from a yellowed street lamp outside, bathing the library in a soft ominous glow.

Tate steps inside and the door swings shut behind him, latching in place, barring him from a swift retreat.

Hesitant, it takes him a moment to find his voice, dark eyes busy sweeping over the seemingly empty room, and when he speaks, it's like casting out a line into the ink black sea. "Hello?"

At first, there's nothing, just the sounds of his own breathing and the frenzied thump of his heart.

"You've gotta say Marco." It's a girl's voice, and it's coming from somewhere in the aisles of books.

Tate's mouth pulls wide into a grin and he drops the towel, taking quick strides away from the study tables and over to where there are rows and rows of books, at the opposite end of the library.

Marco Polo. Ask and answer. This was a game built for them.

"Marco," he calls, edging past the Biography section, but the answering "Polo" is coming from Non-Fiction.

He ducks back towards the voice, his insecurities melting away at the drawled, easy tone.

"Marco." He catches a peek through the shelf at a pair of mustard colored tights and leather saddle shoes.

"Polo." She's lurking in Literature.

Tate speeds around the corner and catches a thin wrist just as it's about to disappear into Science-Fiction and Fantasy.

"Gotcha," he whispers, triumphant, reeling her back into Literature.

It's her. The girl from the track meet. With the porkpie hat and the too-big cardigan. She's got brown hair and round eyes and there's a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

She's perfect.

Backed up against Kafka and Kipling, she leers up at Tate from under the rim of her hat and a puff of smoke slips out through the seam of her lips. "You're late."

Tate wants to tell her he knows, that she knows too, that he saw her there at the meet tonight. He wants to ask her her name, why she started stuffing notes into his locker, what she wanted from him. But he doesn't get the chance. She stamps out her cigarette, right there in the carpeted floor of the library, and drags him down, one hand curving around the back of his neck, for a kiss.

Her lips are soft and she tastes like nicotine, and already, he's an addict. Just from the simple brush of her lips. Just from the first feel of her hips in his hands. She's different.

She smoothes one hand up the damp front of his shirt and sighs into his mouth, working his lips apart with her own and feeling out the edges of his teeth with her tongue.

His heart sings that its met it's match and he's helpless to quiet it.

"You taste like salt," she murmurs when she's through with the kiss, her fingers curling around the hairs at his nape, her hips tilting forwards, seeking out his.

"Uh, yeah, sorry." His voice is already ragged and uneven and it's embarrassing, just how much this strange girl's affecting him.

"I don't care," she grins, pulling off her hat, frisbeeing it up onto the high windowsill at the end of the aisle.

Then she's got both hands against Tate's chest and, gently, she's pushing him back. He concedes with a petulant groan, already half-hard under his track shorts, stepping back and combing both hands through his sweat-crisp hair.

V rolls her eyes at his reluctance and sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, grinning up into his half-lidded stare as she quickly rolls down and steps out of her tights and panties. Once they're off and she's flattened out her skirt, she toes them out of the way and straightens back up. "C'mere, help me up."

She's making grabby hands for him to come closer and wrapping both arms around his neck when he does, pushing herself back against the books for leverage.

Tate's only able to do what she says and nothing more, still gaping at the fact that they met not five minutes ago and she's already climbing him like a tree, her legs cinching around his waist, her delicate ankles locking together at the base of his spine.

Her bare cunt leaves a damp patch against the front of his shorts that feels warm enough to burn straight through his boxers.

"Are you… are you sure?" He croaks when his brain starts up again, his mouth gone dry with sudden want, and she laughs. It sounds like bells and her eyebrows arch up with her lips and Tate wants to bottle the sound, wants to take it home and put it on the shelf, wants to keep it as a reminder of what he'd lose if he really did shoot up Westfield like he always had in his dreams.

"I like you, Tate," she puffs out, grinding down against his obvious hard-on, her arms bending at the elbows, curling, bringing their chests together, her back lifting up off the shelf. "You're not like all the other fuckholes here. You're different."

Tate chokes out a breath and bridges the short distance between their lips, licking into her mouth, pulling his hips back and reaching under V's thigh to free himself from the prison of his shorts. The blood in his veins burn white-hot and if he's not inside her soon he thinks he just might waste away.

One arm crooked around the arched curve of her back, he rubs himself teasingly along the slick length of her slit, fisting his eyes shut to keep from driving into her just yet.

"You're not a virgin, are you?" he pants, leaving her mouth to trail kisses down the side of her cheek and underneath the ledge of her jaw.

She laughs again, like bells, and claws her nails into the column of his throat, hips reaching forward, needy.

That's it, all the decency he's got left in him now, and pressing his teeth into the muscle of her shoulder to keep from whining out, Tate cants his hips and pushes inside with one fluid thrust that draws a smothered groan from the pair of them. It feels good, _so _good, but it feels like coming home after being gone too., like being whole, if there really was such a thing.

* * *

><p>The fuck right there, with Shakespeare and Plath and Bronte and Hemingway watching, and sag down onto the floor when they're through, when he's sweating all over again.<p>

When they find they've got bones again, and the capacity to move, the parking lot is empty and he offers to walk her home. She accepts with a jibe about chivalry and doesn't even pull a face when he demands to hold her hand the whole way.

He kisses her on the steps, and again at the door, and only when she's about to disappear inside does he remember to ask.

"Wait, what's your name?"

She reaches up onto her tiptoes and kisses him one last time through the cracked door and smiles, not a grin or a smirk, but a real smile, one that's just for him, and then she laughs like bells.

"Goodnight, Tate."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thanks for reading!

As for future fic endeavors, I've got a collab WIP going with **whodreamedit**, and **Gray Glube **and I will be writing a few more 'The Devil's' pieces.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I have been gone for so long! Life is pretty bleh right now and I have been feeling super nostalgic and MISSING YOU GUYS, so I wrote this. I am super rusty and it might be horrible because I'm rushing to post before work, but I love you all!

* * *

><p>The notes don't stop after he's seen her, felt her from the inside. Every day between second and third period there's a white square waiting for Tate after U.S. History, slipped between the steel slats of his locker. The folded bits of paper still hold questions never answers, just like before, and just like before, every note is signed with a delicate V.<p>

Tate doesn't learn what it stands for until he's fucking her in the dark against the stuccoed sidewall of an apartment uptown and a man's voice calls out from above.

"Violet, are you out there? _Violet?_"

On the fourth or fifth shout, Tate's brain fires and he lifts his face away from her shoulder to make wide, significant eyes at her in the night, but mystery girl only covers his mouth with her hand and bucks forward to say that this isn't over. Twin orgasms later, when they're sitting in mulch, half hidden by neatly trimmed bushes framing a cement walkway does she admit around a bent cigarette that, yeah, that's her name. From there, Tate pulls tiny truths from her like teeth. The address she'd left in his locker earlier in the day was to her dad's apartment, hence the guy having a shit fit upstairs. Her parents will have been divorced for two years in the fall; the place he walked her home that first night was her mom's house. Violet lives there most of the time, only spending every other weekend with her dad, who is apparently a grade-A asshole.

"I can feel your jizz soaking through my underwear," she says then, closing back up around her secrets, and flattens down both her hair and the paisley skirt that had been hiked up around her thighs a few minutes ago. "Gross."

Tate wrinkles his nose and laughs, chases her up to the front door, but Violet doesn't let him kiss her goodnight, keeps her hands out against his chest until she's all the way inside. The door closes in front of her wicked smile and a little wave.

He tastes her name the whole way home.

Violet.

* * *

><p>"Wanna go get slurpees?"<p>

It's early afternoon at the park. He's got a free period and she's probably ditching.

Tate shakes his head, hair whipping out against Violet's face. He's hanging upside down, hands holding his ankles to keep his legs looped around a monkeybar. Even like this, she still has to reach if she wants his mouth. "I can't," he says, "I've got track later. If I hit the wall during long distance, I'll be puking blue all over the place."

She giggles, visualizing it, and shrugs. "Fine, whatever." While his hands are busy, she walks around him and plays pattycake on his ass.

He gets woodchips in his hair and down his shirt when he drops to chase her back up the road to school before the last bell rings.

Violet sticks around long enough to wolf whistle when Tate emerges from the locker room in a black tank top and flimsy running shorts that hit mid-thigh. The rest of the team is gathering down by the bleachers so she won't let him kiss her, but she does shout down, "hey number twenty-three, nice sticks!" before slipping off to god knows where.

One of the guys on the team - Tate never can remember his name - nudges with his elbow and grins with half of his mouth. "Holy shit, Langdon. I didn't know you were screwing Wednesday Addams. _Nice_."

Kyle Greenwell. That's it.

Coach Finstock doesn't get to them before Tate draws blood. He's on top of Kyle in the dirt, the knuckles on both hands indented with marks from teeth that are now lost in the grass or down Kyle's throat. It takes three people to pull him off, and a fourth to keep him there. Coach is screaming, dragging Kyle up to his feet a safe distance away and steadying him to get a look at his face.

"Re-thinking prom pictures, Greenwell?" Tate goads, curling and uncurling his fingers against the tightness of bruises already setting in.

A few minutes later, Kyle is cleaned up with the med kit and on the phone to his parents, fucking crying about it, the coach walks over to where Tate's sitting at the opposite end of the field. He squats in the shade next to him and sighs. "Now I don't know what that was about, but you were way out of line there. I should have you cut from the team."

A bolt of fear shakes Tate at that, losing his one shot at getting the fuck out of this town, but he keeps it from the surface, only lowering his eyes. "My bad." He still can't find it in himself to regret demonstrating what happens to kids that talk about Violet that way. If his track career is over, at least he has pieces of her.

But then he's being clapped on the shoulder, jostled a little. "You're my star athlete, kid. I'd be up shit creek without a paddle if you weren't running for me." His smile is hesitant, but there all the same. "Just keep a lid on that temper and everything will be just peachy, alright?"

Tate wipes a hand over his face and nods. Relief settles over the pins and needles of still wanting to beat Kyle's brains into paste.

"Good. Warm up's in five. Get some water."

After practice, he sneaks back into school to drop a note into Violet's locker asking when he can see her again. The note he gets the next morning is just a lecture doodle of a cat eating pizza.

He finds himself still smiling about it halfway through first period.

* * *

><p>It's her idea to go to prom. He'd brought it up a few times, but Violet had shrugged it off. She says she isn't his girlfriend, won't even admit that they're dating, and so he'd let it go. But the Friday before, he finds a little paper football sitting in his locker.<p>

* * *

><p>So. Prom? Pick me up at mom's. 6.<p>

-V

* * *

><p>His mother being all about appearances, half of Tate's closet is cluttered with three-piece suits from the menagerie of events she'd dragged him to. When he comes down the stairs wearing a black slim-fitting number she'd gifted him the previous winter, it's all Constance can do to remain seated.<p>

"Now wait just a minute, mister. Where are you off to dressed to the nines? My stars," she gawks, "you've even pulled a comb through that rat's nest you call hair. What's the occasion?"

Tate sidesteps her outstretched hand to scoop his car keys off the dinner table. "I've got a thing, okay? It's really none of your fucking business."

"Don't speak to your mother that way," Larry snaps over his shoulder, stirring something on the stove.

Constance tuts, strikes another match and lights back up.

Outside, Tate peers back in, clears his throat to gather their attention and says, "do us all a favor, Larry, and put your head in the oven." Something hits the door after its closed and shatters, Mother's ashtray most likely. Tate laughs all the way to his car parked on the street.

* * *

><p>Violet opens the door in a loose grey sweater and tiny shorts. After a brief pause to check Tate out, she waits around for his quizzical, "that's what you're wearing?" before skipping down her front steps and ducking into his car.<p>

"No you fucking dunce." Lit up on her smartphone are directions to a popular thrift store nearby.

She tries on the entire rack of vintage for him, making a show of each garment she zips into, and Tate thinks he would be perfectly content missing the entire night for just this, Violet making silly faces peppered with smiles for him.

The winner is a printed skater dress in muted grays and yellow. Unlike her usual attire, it fits snug against her skin down to the waist where it flares, cut short but, Christ, does she have the legs for it.

Tate wants to put his hands all over her, and something on his face must give it away because she takes them and pulls, her Doc Martens clacking against the tile as they break into a run for the car. "Hurry up or we're not going to have time for dinner."

In N Out in the parking lot with the windows down and Violet's dress pushed up to reveal a flask held in place by a garter, coupled with a breeze and The Smiths in the speakers makes it all feel like a dream.

They park a few blocks from the venue and walk slow, drowning onion breath with whiskey in turns while Violet plucks flowers from peoples' lawns to weave into her hair.

"You're killing me," Tate tells her, because she fucking is, every goddamn thing about her. Dragging a stick across an iron fence that riles up every dog in the area and grinning up at him in a three dollar dress that doesn't match her shoes; he's losing it. Good things don't happen to Tate. His whole life is still packed into mislabeled boxes shoved into the back of his closet and his mom's a cocksucker and he's toeing the line of substance abuse. Pretty girls with sharp smiles and tongues and without a moral compass don't look at him like she does. It's unnerving, like staring at a trip wire and waiting to stumble and trigger it.

Violet brings him back to himself. She's eyeing him like he just grew a second head, her arms folded up tight. "Are you having a stroke," she asks, "or can we go inside?"

Tate rolls his eyes and plucks what's left of a cigarette from her fingers, kills it and, stomping on the butt, takes her hand. "You're a fucking asshole."

They walk in together, past the parent-volunteers loitering in the hall and the cheesy set where photos are being taken and into the ballroom where a sea of bodies are swelling against the heavy bass playing through the speakers on stage.

It's a fucking madhouse, douchebags in sunglasses and white tuxedos humping girls bent at the waist, little white pills decorated with smiley faces and dollar signs being traded on tongues, the air hazy with all the weed being smoked.

Kyle fucking Greenwell is wearing more makeup than Oprah Winfrey and standing off to the side with some bored-looking brunette. Tate stops just before the mob starts to give Kyle a little wave, but Violet keeps walking backwards towards it, pulls a little square out of her bra and unfolds it to share.

* * *

><p>The million dollar question: do you dance?<p>

-V

* * *

><p>Tate can't help his laugh. It's swallowed by sound, but she sees it.<p>

Dance? He'd bring her the fucking moon.

By the time they make it to the middle of the pit, they've bumped more than shoulders with half of the entire senior class and Tate would gripe about it but then Violet is closing in, the beat of some top 40 hit rolling through her. In one hand she brandishes a baggie filled with ecstasy she must have pickpocketed on their way through the crowd. Her face is a question.

It's tempting and would be really fucking fun, but Tate shakes his head. He wants to be present for this, wants to remember how she looked tonight, how she made him feel.

No harm, no foul. She shrugs and slips it into a bra cup for safekeeping and then loops both arms around Tate's neck to bring him down low. "You look pretty fucking criminal in a suit and tie, Tate Langdon," she teases, easing her hips against his in a slow circle.

The thump of the speakers is in his chest, syncs with his heart and pulses down through his bones. Her waist fits just right in his hands, soft cotton slipping and sliding under his palms when she sways. There's no barrier here. She isn't pushing at his chest to keep him back or waving her goodbyes when other people are around. Violet seals herself against Tate now, with fingers hooked under his lapels and then, under the strobe of colored lights, they're kissing where anyone can see.

She tastes like french fries and whiskey and fresh like her menthols and Tate lets himself get lost.

There are promises of later, after they leave. Her mom's out of town for business and Violet just washed her sheets and does that give him any ideas? Anything at all?

On the walk back to the car she spots the Lexus one of the popular bitches at school drives and pops both back tires with a switchblade Tate can't fathom where she's had hidden all night.

He swallows her dark giggle and takes her home, skins her out of her thrift store treasure and dresses her back up with himself.

After, when they're sweaty and breathing hard, she tips over, warm against his side, to whisper in his ear. "Fucking on prom night? What a cliché," she says, and she laughs like bells.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Yeah, Tate's coach is the coach from Teen Wolf. Wanna fight about it? (Sorry, when I have to make up characters I just use teen wolf characters now because my life has been eaten by that stupid show.)

Thanks for reading!

Here's to season three being less shitty than season two! xx


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